Immortal
by Abandon Structure
Summary: A short story about a possibility of what might have been. Set in the Founders era so no Harry.


Summary: What if you were given a gift? What if that gift was immortality, yours for the taking, provided you obey one stipulation: Do not interfere.

But promises made in times of peace are harder to keep in times of war. Four people accepted this gift, four people's who's continued inaction could mean the death of a whole world. Who will fight and who will fall?

"People don't like to be meddled with. We tell them what to do, what to think: don't run, don't walk. We're in their homes and in their heads and we haven't the right. We're meddlesome." ~_Serenity_, 2005, River Tam~

Chapter One

Candles burned on top of every visible surface, taking up more space than the seven bodies in the room, generating more heat as well.

Sweat drew dewy paths down necks, trailing down shoulders and backs, emphasizing the basic uncomfortable features that come with the human form. But sweat meant little to the occupants of this room.

One was the master, the puppeteer, setting her stage with a toothy grin and tattooed skin. Two were simply observers, watching, incapable of speech.

The other four were here out of their own means; she wouldn't have it any other way. Yes, there was something to be said for the capturing of one's prey, of forceful submission and enslavement, but she preferred the much more elaborate method of free will.

It made their pain so much sweeter in the end. Because then the only person they had left to blame for the follies of man would be themselves and the choice that they made.

"You are ready," her voice was heavy with an accent not native to this land, her skin gleaming ebony under the golden lights. A statement disguised as a question; none of them would have made it past the front door if she hadn't been certain of their commitment.

"What assurance do we have that this will work?" Unsurprising it was the Dark One who spoke. His soul was a stain, redeemed only by his sense of loyalty and duty. She had watched him many a times through the ages committing horrific deeds in the name of such airy concepts as freedom, justice, and truth.

She smiled again, her eyes gleaming an unnatural shade of amber as the lights danced across her face.

"None," she replied glibly. "But my word as a shaman."

"Surely as I'm standing here, I am not assured at all by your word." Ah, yes, the Cunning Fox, with a sharp tongue and an even sharper eye.

"Be careful, boy," she warned, her exotic rasp dropping an octave, her smile vanishing, replaced by an angry glint. "I know magic's your kind will only ever dream about."

He sneered and opened his mouth to reply, but the Wise One cut him off, her expression cool and calm, undoubtedly fortified by hours of thought and careful consideration.

For this one, she would gladly have struck a bargain. It would be amusing, if nothing less, watching her over the years.

"You said that this could take several days. What exactly will it entail?" Her smile returned, with a sly, taunting element as she turned her back and opened the cabinet behind her.

"Many a d'ing," she purred with an accent sweet and thick like honeyed molasses. "Right now, d'ough, all it requires is a little bit of your blood."

All four of them tensed, as she had expected. There were three types of magic that outstripped all others in this world: Sex, blood, and a third power that was seldom mentioned and even more seldom used.

She would be using blood for this ritual, blood to give them what they were here for, what they'd chosen, willingly, to accept as both a blessing and a curse.

Unsurprisingly, it was the Tempered Blade that stepped forward first, her sleeve pushed up and her arm bared, expression fiercely determined.

"Do it," she commanded with simple elegance. The shamaness studied the Blade for a single moment, her face empty of expression, before finally smiling and drawing out the athame to be used for this ritual.

"I don't recognize any of those symbols," the Wise One spoke, her expression suspicious and guarded. The Shamaness smiled in response, revealing rows of half rotted teeth.

"You aren't supposed to," she replied, drawing the obsidian knife one across the Blade's milky flesh, watching with greedy eyes as blood ran crimson rivets down her skin into the chalice.

The Blade bore it with quiet pain, her expression tight as she chewed on her bottom lip, face turned away from the scarlet river, eyes downcast with either pain or shame until the Shamaness let out a purring note of approval.

"Enough," she murmured, the Blade quickly withdrawing her arm and healing herself with an innate skill that made the shamaness shiver with delicious envy. Oh to have that sort of power over oneself…and others.

The Fox was the next to step forward, as always eager to prove himself just as strong as the Blade, whom he admired more often than not from afar. His expression remained bland as the shamaness drew the athame down the length of his arm, faltering slightly when she made a deliberately deeper cut at the end. She smiled gamely as he studied her with an innate suspicion.

The Wise One was next, offering her arm with her custom stoicism. The Shamaness was tempted to draw the athame deep across her skin, but did not want to risk having the Wise One change her mind as a result. Of the four, she was least likely to follow blindly by faith.

The Dark One said nothing and did nothing more than hold out his bare arm. His expression never shifted, never faltered as she drew the blade over his flesh, parting the skin like a ripe fruit, its juices spilling down into the chalice.

"Good, good," the Shamaness gave another toothy grin as she turned from them, moving with careful steps towards her altar.

The days of the Gods were behind these civilized witches and wizards, but the shamaness could still feel their kill, still feel their life's blood running through her veins. Once, long ago, she had been their champion, their purpose given flesh.

Now she was less than that, but with this sacrifice, this offering, she hoped to regain what was lost.

Hope.

**A/N: **I'm on a exploration of old stories. I only have this chapter, this possibility right now, but I remember being obsessed with this idea for a while. And I love these scenes...Anyways, I doubt I'll continue or finish this, but I want to dangle it out there as a possibility. If somebody wants to take the ball and roll with it, go with my blessing.


End file.
